


feels like -- / edge / fire and ice

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Body Worship, Bondage, FFXV NSFW Week, FFXV NSFW Week 2018, Inspired By Tumblr, Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by Fanfiction, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Pseudofellatio, Safe Sane and Consensual, a different kind of hand job, prompt: bodies, prompt: risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 02:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13777491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Part 1: Prompto probably shouldn’t try to wake Ravus up like this. But he can’t resist, and he also has way too many feels.Part 2: They do this every once in a while: they learn control, they learn each other, and they have a damn good time.Part 3: Ice daemon Ignis + fire daemon Prompto = neither of them knows what they’re doing, and there’s nothing left of them but the pure base need that they sprang from.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notavodkashot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/gifts), [Izumii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izumii/gifts).



> These are my contributions to the FFXV NSFW Week 2018. ([Tumblr](https://ffxvnsfwweek.tumblr.com/)) The prompt for Day 2 was Bodies; the prompt for Day 3 was Risk; and the prompt for Day 7 was Aftercare.
> 
> Part 1 carries on from my series of Prompto/Ravus fics, originally posted to my FFXV blog [here](https://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/tagged/pairing%3A-ravprom).
> 
> Part 2 is directly inspired by [Izuumii's](https://izuumii.tumblr.com/) magnificent art [here](https://izuumii.tumblr.com/post/171111485321/ffxv-nsfw-week-day-3-risk-ship-promptis).
> 
> Part 3 is the nsfw version of [this Promnis AU](http://notavodkashot.tumblr.com/post/170181740772/prompt-ignis-is-pretty-sure-that-up-until)! And yes, this was written with the direct permission of [notavodkashot](http://notavodkashot.tumblr.com)!

He must have fallen asleep, because he’s waking up: graceless and breathless and shivering, and he can feel, again, the long welted red lines of pain welling up along his back –- dangerously close to his spine, dangerously deep. Potions are at a premium these days. He’s taken to doing things the very old-fashioned way. He can take the scoldings, he can take the cold hurt pouts, he can take the sharp questions. He can go without. He can bear the pull of the bandages and the poultices, the clean smell of leaf and fruit pulp melting into his skin.

And he wakes up and sits up and –- for a wonder, he’s not alone in the bed.

A wonder.

Not even the sullen heavy night, sodden again with muttering pissing rain, can take this away from him: this simple pleasure, this quiet thing that he has.

White hair, unruly, overdue for a trim, pressed into the rough open-weave of the pillowcases, the patched and darned and pieced sheets. Pale skin, scarred and welted, stretched along the lean muscled length of one arm –- Ravus never did learn how to sleep in a compact and contained way.

Fortunately, Prompto likes to sleep curled up and coiled tight –- never mind the additional tension that kind of sleeping leaves in his nerves, in his shoulders, in his neck, in the small of his back. It is what it is, and he sleeps well, when he sleeps small.

Perhaps that’s one of the other blessings he’s snatched out of the night and its stupid endless weight, its stupid endless hours of howling shadows.

A lesser blessing, he thinks, compared to the sight of Ravus sprawled out and breathing slow and steady and deep beside him: and where he’s thrown his flesh-and-blood-and-bone arm up to cover his face, to cover his eyes, the arm made of magitek and metal lies inert along his left side as it always does. Black armature and those wicked shapes like blades and claws and, and teeth: and locking them in place, holding the whole thing together, the actual teeth of cogs and gears and –-

He doesn’t know why he’s picking up Ravus’s left hand in both of his: the faintly shadowy gleam of it, disconcerting cold weight on his knees, in the palms of his hands.

If he didn’t know any better, if he hadn’t been there to see it contained and changed with his own two eyes, he’d have sworn the entire fucking cursed thing was still going to try and eat Ravus, if not in body then in soul.

But he does know better: and he reassures himself in the here and now, fingertips over metal.

Little finger, and moving inward, slow and deliberate and careful, because he doesn’t want to cut Ravus’s sleep suddenly short. Sharp tip of each black-glinting shape, then running down to the knuckles, down to where each finger joins the palm. One finger after the other and then he carefully turns that hand over, palm up.

There are, of course, no lines in Ravus’s left hand –- no way to play at predicting futures and fortunes.

There is only this, the tenderness that surges in him, and he lifts Ravus’s palm to his mouth, and he presses a reverent kiss to the slowly-warming base of his thumb.

Ravus stirs, and Prompto holds his breath, and then he can hear Ravus’s sleepy muttering subside.

Okay. Close call.

He kisses the joins of fingers and palms, once again, and his own hands are shivering, a little. Heat transfer, from his body into Ravus’s hand.

He doesn’t have any excuse for the urge to bend over, and lovingly, softly, run his tongue over the grooves and the crevices of black metal.

He expects the harsh bitter tang of it, the taste that almost reminds him of blood, almost reminds him of the stink of miasma.

Almost.

Because underneath the metal he can, he thinks he can smell Ravus himself: and that’s a foolish thought, when the entirety of him is actually right there, stretched out, stirring softly in his sleep, in his dreams. Worn linen and the sturdy material of his white-and-purple coat, the black layers he wears beneath. Charred wood and the delicate, easily-bruised skin of a peach, and the dust of the road, and the salt of his sweat –- Prompto shivers, hyperaware all of a sudden, nerves sparking at the taste of Ravus like he’s tinder and Ravus has struck a match, has touched the match to him.

Before he can even be aware of it, he’s lifting Ravus’s hand to his mouth again: and it’s still a surprise, given he’s just been mapping those fingers with his own, with his mouth, when he tries –- and fails –- to fit Ravus’s pointer finger into his mouth.

The finger’s too long, where it ends in that extended point.

Well, there’s a challenge, and he laughs, soundlessly, and takes a deep breath, and another: that’s enough, that lets him relax his throat, and he takes the finger in easily, this time, the entire weight of it pressing down on his tongue, sharp edges that could slice him open at any time, and maybe it’s that awareness that shudders through him, sweetly scorching, that tips him over into the next thought. Cheeks hollowing as he breathes and sucks and runs his tongue over the digit –- he wants more, he thinks, more.

Middle finger. Ring finger. Heavy metal, and Prompto’s mouth is almost full, and he groans softly and –-

“What are you doing.”

He doesn’t want to answer. He can’t, and he’s got a pretty good excuse –- his mouth is currently very occupied –- he holds up his own left hand instead. Makes a thumbs-up gesture –- then turns the hand around, into thumbs-down.

Silent signal: _Is this okay? Is this not-okay?_

Ravus’s flesh-and-blood hand reaching for him, shockingly warm caress over his knuckles; Ravus is turning his hand back into the thumbs-up gesture.

Prompto smiles as best as he can around the fingers in his mouth. Catches the black-metal little finger –- really not so little at all, as it shares the same extended point as all the others on this hand –- between his own thumb and middle finger, warm strokes up and down the length of it before gently fitting it into his mouth.

This time he does feel the scrape of edges against his inner cheek, and instead of recoiling from the thought of tasting blood in the back of his mouth –- he moans, softly, and tries to curl his tongue around it.

“This is –- ill-advised,” he hears Ravus whisper, and the words rumble through him, illicit spiking thrill.

He nods. He can’t get enough of the weight of that hand, the points poking into his mouth, and he wonders what Ravus sees –- but only for a moment.

Ravus flexes the metal hand and Prompto doesn’t gag on him, he’s well past that –- but gods, the feel of it, that movement, the incredible power of that hand leashed and so beautifully carefully controlled for him, because of him, and he moans, louder this time.

Wonder, need, in the strained lines of Ravus’s face.

One after the other the fingers in Prompto’s mouth bear down, pressing threat over his tongue, the edges of his teeth –- the points brushing into his throat –-

He can’t talk, not with that pressure, steady, holding him in place as Ravus smiles, sharp knowing edge –- strokes his metal thumb against Prompto’s cheek and jawline and –- fuck, fuck, the idea of it tears Prompto’s mind to pieces –- Ravus is strong enough to literally slash him open, Ravus has more than enough sharp edges on the fucking hand to rip his jaw away, and Ravus has far too much leverage now, now that he’s actively pushing his own fingers in and deeper and –-

That smile, gods and Astrals damn him, that smile that lights up Ravus’s eyes, and they’re far, far past the point of no return now: a small part of Prompto’s mind notes that he’s dangerously close to coming in his ragged shorts –- even more so when Ravus presses close, so close, and his flesh-and-blood hand is skimming down over Prompto’s chest, down over the sweet cramping shudder of his stomach, and into his waistband. The vital powerful warmth of Ravus’s skin against his own, the vital powerful flex of his fingers around his cock.

And it’s Ravus’s turn to ask. “Slow? Fast? What do you wish?”

Prompto doesn’t have any more words left in him: he moans, helpless, caught and pinned in this delicious moment, this delicious proximity, drunk on all of Ravus that’s pressing close, into and around him.

And Ravus strokes him slow, slow, wildfire lighting him up as he feels his own spit drip out the corner of his stretched-out mouth and he hollows his cheeks as best as he can, goes down on the fingers in his mouth, and maybe he’s moaning but Ravus is definitely shaking, shaking apart –-

His teeth clatter against the black metal in his mouth when he cries out and comes, and that’s not really going to be a problem, is it?

He almost shakes his head when Ravus makes to pull out his hand –-

“Hold still, damn you. I don’t want to cut you.”

“Wouldn’t have minded,” Prompto says, and then he grins, hearing the rough edges of his own voice, the rasp in the words that makes Ravus stare at him again, intense, beautiful, wondrous.

“I would have.”

“Oh shut up and kiss me.”

“I vow, you’re insatiable.” But Ravus is grinning back, is licking his lips, showy deliberate, and what is there to do but haul him close?

“Have me,” he moans, shamelessly, and –- Ravus does.


	2. Chapter 2

He was careful not to press in too hard, too deeply, into Prompto’s hips, into the tell-tale thin lines from -– from the last time they’d done this. Something like this. Careful not to add the insult of bruises to healing cuts: he liked that, and Prompto really liked that, but they were still only flesh-and-blood beings after all, and too many injuries would give the game away, and then where would they be?

Better to focus on what was right before him in any case, better to pay attention to the shift of the lines in Prompto’s face, the beautiful agony of him. Kiss-bruised lips drawn together, pressed into a sweet grimace of a smile, and Noctis grinned a little, pressed him down more, more, slow and long and insistent slide of skin against skin, and his reward was a twitch of bound hands, fingers fluttering uselessly over Noctis’s own knees where he was still holding Prompto’s cord-lashed wrists in the small of his back.

“You, you,” and Noctis jerked his hips up all the way and whatever Prompto had been trying to say vanished into the long low moan that shivered through him, words unraveling, and now it was Noctis’s turn to reassert control over himself, now that he was here, fully sheathed in the hot tight press of Prompto, the pulse that thundered through both of them and their laboring breaths.

Noctis caught his breath and wrapped both arms around Prompto’s waist, and coaxed him close. “All right? You need to tap out?”

“I, I,” gasp, hitch around the words, edges of sharp teeth in Prompto’s answering smile. “I need you to _move_.”

“So much for submission,” Noctis laughed: but he laughed low and long when he thrust up into him, once, twice, three times, hard and fast enough that Prompto couldn’t even respond, not in words, not in the flash of his eyes. Hard and fast enough that Prompto couldn’t even cry out, all the breath and all the words seemingly punched out of him.

And Noctis reached for the dish on the low table next to the bed, snugged right up against the crumpled and creased sheets, the patient mattress: in the low light the antiseptic solution gleamed even redder and even browner than fresh blood welling up against pale freckled skin. In the low light all the edges on the little knife seemed to sharpen and gleam like watching eyes.

He let all the drip-drip-dripping liquid fall away, and then he touched the sweet soft dip of warm skin right above Prompto’s mouth with the very tip of the little knife. “Still want this?”

Where Prompto found that dark chuckle, Noctis didn’t know: it only made him react, and he thrust up into Prompto again, causing him to laugh even more.

“You know I do. You know I want it.” Prompto, leaning in, licking at his cheek, and Noctis shuddered in a breath. _“I know you need it.”_

Twitch against Noctis’s abdomen: the movement of Prompto’s bound cock. Leather, steel rings, the perfect cage.

Fuck.

Somehow Noctis caught at the frayed edges of his mind, of his sense of control -– again the thought that they could only go so far, the flash of regret -– and he drew the knife downward, gently scoring over the convulsive movement in Prompto’s throat, that anticipating swallow and gasp. Down, past the heave and hitch of Prompto’s chest, fighting for every last breath.

The tip of the knife caught in one of the older scars, and Noctis pressed in, just enough for the skin to dip. Not to draw blood.

Not there anyway.

Up and here, here was a good place: he turned his wrist, almost delicately. Brought the sharp sterile edge of the knife to bear down over that flushed freckled pectoral and he very carefully didn’t look up into Prompto’s eyes as he cut in, shallow slice at first, a short arc -–

“Please, please, please,” Prompto whispered, pleading.

“I will, I will,” Noctis whispered back, soothing, and so he dug in with the little knife and there, there was the blood pearling pooling on Prompto, and he caught the drops on the steel, before raising it so Prompto could see it, too. “There you are, can you see?”

“Yeah, yeah,” and he was beautiful, Prompto was beautiful enough to drive Noctis crazy, here and now where he was so good, holding himself still despite all that Noctis had done, was still doing, to assault his senses. All that Noctis was doing to drive him out of his mind: eyes wide open, but unfocused, bliss like tears in the corners of his eyes, staring at the knife, staring at his own blood on the knife.

“More,” Noctis murmured, “you want more, don’t you?” And he punctuated the words with the movement of his hips, thrusting up into Prompto again and again.

Gods, he was close, too: and the yearning cry that broke from Prompto’s mouth was no help at all, or was all the help he needed, depending on the moment. Sweet need, in that desperate sound.

And Noctis set the blade into Prompto’s skin again, a longer arc echoing the first, set above the first, and as soon as he was finished he threw the knife back onto the little table -– as soon as he was finished he rocked forward and set his mouth on Prompto, blood flowing onto his tongue, onto his teeth, as Prompto cursed him, fervent and broken: “Fuck, Noctis, just -– fuck you fucking stop teasing me please -– ”

Noctis laughed as Prompto shook and shivered and he licked up the last of the welling blood. Grabbed Prompto by the back of his neck and pulled him down, bowed him down, catching him up in a kiss of rust-scent and the blood that sat heavy on his tongue -–

And he undid all of Prompto’s restraints, his wrists and his cock -– thrust up as hard and as fast as he could, drinking in Prompto’s scream as he kissed him, again and again and now he was fucking up into him, reckless and wild, and he growled, “Touch yourself, now, now, Prompto, _now!_ ”

“Noct!” Desperate cry in the night -– he only heard it because the sound shook through him, through both of them, and he felt himself come apart at last, fly apart at the seams -– and Prompto was coming, too, and the world fell away and he was nothing more than his own skin and nerves, than Prompto’s blood on his lips -– Prompto groaning and seizing him by his shoulders and holding him close -–


	3. Chapter 3

Click, click, click: a handful of locks on the door.

On the other side of the wall: a sleeping Noctis, and Gladiolus to sit the long lonely watches of the night by himself. His appointed task, his responsibility from the cradle, his calling and his cruel fate.

Ignis regards the walls, the door, the shuttered windows, and shakes his head. 

Nothing’s to stop him from reaching out to the corners of this room with nothing but the tiniest fraction of the power that twists and surges in his veins, trapped within this frail form -- nothing’s to stop him from tearing this room, this floor, this entire building, to cold-blasted bits. Howl in his ears, sweet jagged fanged song, the screams and the ice that lodge themselves in his throat: he takes a deep breath, and licks his lips, and he’s about to turn around, when --

Presence behind him, _like_ and yet so, so very _unlike_ : the presence behind him that smells of ash and sulfur and scorched stone, the presence that warms his back, the presence of torrential flame.

And all he sees when he turns around is the flash, the spark, of fire in golden eyes.

Golden eyes in a freckled face. Golden eyes all of a clash with fine white-blond hair. Golden eyes similar to Ignis’s own.

Prompto Argentum: the mystery of him can only deepen and deepen, and that frustrates Ignis to no end. He needs the world to fall into its tidy little boxes, its neat little enclosures, and here is someone who will never fall into any of those categories because -- because honestly, Ignis has been around for a while in some form or another, and he has never seen anyone like Prompto.

Anything like him.

And even as he stares, even as he knows his mortal disguise is sloughing away, Prompto’s eyes are still locked unerringly on his.

Ignis lets the tides take him, lets the frail human form unravel, and he is thankful for these longer and longer nights, even as he curses their ultimate source: he is thankful that he can be who he really is, even if only for a relatively short time, and he curses the one who’s brought all these nights to bear on no more than a boy, no more than the prince and the heir that Ignis has pledged himself to.

He’ll tear Ardyn to pieces yet: he only wants one chance. One single chance. One single night.

“I,” Prompto begins -- and in that one single short sound, that one single short utterance, his voice changes. His human form, too: discarded suddenly, in a flash of shadow-dark flames. 

And Ignis regards him, cold as the ice that lodges in his chest in lieu of a heart -- regards the point of contact between them, Prompto’s hand that ends in a set of hearth-red claws, delicately wrapped around his wrist. “What do you think you’re doing,” he says, he doesn’t shriek. It won’t do to disturb anyone else around here.

In that smile -- the first smile he’s ever seen out of this daemon-Prompto, this strange creation, this being he’s never seen before -- he suddenly hears the soft scream, the sweet wail, the song of the damned -- and he almost, almost pulls away from where those claws prick delicately at him, when he feels that slow trickle of fire.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing,” he hisses. Last chance. Last warning.

“I don’t care what I’m doing, I don’t care that I don’t know: so long as I get what I want,” and those words would never fit in Prompto’s mouth, were he still human, were he only human.

But no, they all know it for true now, all of them and Ignis most keenly: Prompto’s not entirely human. Not any more. Not when he screams hellfire onto the battlefields, against those who ought to be his own kind. Not when he weds the fearsome acuity of his eyes to the coruscating fire of his daemonic blood, in order to lay waste to their enemies -- and his sobs rising, like laughter, hilarity like mourning, in every fight he joins.

And in the aftermath: always and only the small diffident half-empty grimace, human-qualities cored out.

So he gives up on the idea, the idiot foolish resemblance of hope, the faint and fading and almost-vanished need to cage Prompto in human categories, and -- Ignis lets go.

Frost is his to command and he draws deeply of it, now, calls on the death that lives frozen in him and sends it out, lashing ravenous, seizing Prompto whose flame-grasp sheets away in shock -- snow-sharp edges digging into him, the filaments of ice that only look delicate and beautiful, and he doesn’t even have to exert any kind of effort: here is Prompto, half-struggling, lifted off the floor, trapped and his teeth bared, sliver of gold-rim around pupils blown wide.

“What do you want,” Ignis drawls.

They are lodging within a stone’s throw of the sea: and the air is full of salt and muggy heat, humidity that stains and saps and enervates. Humidity that he turns to his own purposes, that he uses without even thinking about it, and before long Prompto is wrapped around in chains of ice and snow: he is held, he is caught, he is frozen, here and now.

And he should be struggling: but he seems to fall back into his restraints, and now Ignis has to grit his teeth at the radiant dark flame of him. He seems to fall, and even as Ignis reaches out to him he seems to slow, seems to bend, pliant and surrendering.

The word that escapes Prompto’s mouth is almost lost in the renewed rush in Ignis’s ears, the reaver’s scream, the instinct to _take_ : “You.”

“Be sure of what you wish for,” he hisses.

And the response, rebellion, sparking. Soft roar of wildfire: “Fuck you, just take me!”

He grins, then. “Since you asked so nicely.”

The first kiss tastes like blood; the second, like ashes; the third, like pure molten lust: and Ignis sinks his fangs into Prompto’s lips, and hisses in welcome when Prompto bites back. Not blood that flows out from those wounds, from the flame-hot flame-red skin that’s scored open on the spiraling capturing frost-frame still holding him in place: dark energy, burning through Ignis, and in return he pours his power into Prompto, ice-edges like crystal in that molten-hued hair.

“Touch me,” he orders, and he releases Prompto’s hands -- only those, and wherever the boy touches he feels like flying apart at the seams, and far from being a shock, far from extinguishing him, he only finds his lust spurred on, higher and harder --

He’s not gentle. He doesn’t know what that means: and Prompto doesn’t object, when he’s released in a rush of steam and the discordant song of shattering ice, when he’s manhandled onto his hands and knees on the worn floors beneath their feet -- beneath sulfur-stink, beneath fierce frost.

All he sees of Prompto: the golden eyes, the mouth open in a wide silent cry, back arched, and Ignis doesn’t bother with any ceremony, with any preparation -- he doesn’t need it, and Prompto doesn’t even seem to _want_ it -- he drives into him, merciless claim, and Prompto all around him, pure need, pure hellfire -- 

Only the vibration of his yowls to spur Ignis on, only the ecstatic shudder of his body, and Ignis only has one more moment of eroded cold reason left to him, in which he thinks -- he’ll thank Ardyn for this, for this inestimable gift, before he shatters him.

For now, for now: he sets his icicled hands into Prompto’s skin, and forces him down. Shoulders on the floor, he’s racked on Ignis’s need, and the sounds that fall from his mouth are the staccato crackle of fire on the move, conflagration heading straight for Ignis, and he doesn’t make any move to get out of the way -- not for him the dodge, not for him the dive for shelter. There’s no such thing, between daemons. 

There’s only this -- the taste of ash on his tongue as he pulls Prompto back upright and coaxes him into a vicious ferocious kiss. The uncontrollable shiver of Prompto’s hands shackling his wrists. The high feral note of Prompto’s desperate cries -- need like a storm, pummeling, crashing through Ignis, blanking him out, blurring --

**Author's Note:**

> ninemoons42 on Tumblr: [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)


End file.
